Human
by arcanista
Summary: They don't do a violence.


The skeleton stands with open, slightly trembling arms. The thing that wears a child's skin strides forward with absolute purpose, black-eyed and blank of face.

Only the crunch of snow and the faint rattling of bones can be heard, sharp through the air.

The thing stops short, just a few feet shy of the lanky skeleton. It does not look up, eyes landing just above the skeleton's knee. If it sees anything at all, it gives no indication. A right hand lifts, cased in a dust-crusted glove. It holds in the air, ready to draw back for a punch.

Teeth chatter somewhere above its head, but the bony arms stay extended, an incomprehensible offer.

The thing's hand flexes, squirming in the air, until it writhes free of the glove, letting it fall into the snow. It stumbles forward like a marionette learning to walk, only saved from falling because the skeleton kneels and catches it.

The human throws their arms around Papyrus and buries their face against his armour. He hesitates, but not for long. "Wowie!" he booms. "You did it! You didn't do a violence!"

The human shakes against him, but otherwise seems not even to breathe. Papyrus pays it no mind, and says, "To be honest, I was a little afraid... but you're already becoming a great person! I'm so proud I could cry!"

Papyrus squeezes the human lightly, but they still cling to him, small fingers all tangled up on his cape. "Wait, wasn't I supposed to capture you...?" says Papyrus, looking down at the human. "Well, forget it! I just want you to be the best person you can be. So let's let bybones be bybones. I'll even tell you how to leave the underground!"

The human gives no indication that they hear a single word Papyrus says after that, even when he pulls them away to point them east, waving in the direction of the barrier. They seem to look in the direction he points, but nothing of their expression changes. After too long a silence from them, Papyrus says, "Anyway! That's enough talking! I'll be at home being a cool friend! Feel free to come by and hang out!"

He laughs then and releases the human, ambling back in the direction of the deserted town. The human remains, kneeling in the snow and pointed eastward. Unblinking, they rise and turn around, carefully stepping around Papyrus' tracks.

* * *

Sans ambles into the house and stops to pat his pet rock on the head. He glances into the living room, at the television set to the test pattern. He takes a good long look at the houseguest seated on the floor in front of the couch, then steps into the kitchen, taking a shortcut upstairs from there. He knocks at his brother's door and steps inside. "Hey Papyrus," he says. "Is that the human downstairs?"

Papyrus gets up from the computer. "Yeah!" he says. "They came over to hang out after they decided to be a better person! Isn't it great!"

"Yeah..." says Sans, glancing to the door. "I'll go say hi, I guess."

He heads back downstairs, the normal way this time, to stand beside the human. If they notice him standing there, they don't acknowledge it in any way: they just keep staring at the test pattern, chin tilted a bit upwards to do it, eyes all swallowed by pupil. They don't blink and they don't breathe.

Sans shifts, moving to sit on his heels. "Hey buddy," he says. Nothing. That doesn't stop him, of course. "So you changed your mind, huh? That's good. That's real good. But we gotta talk about something. Or I gotta, I guess. You don't seem like much of a talker. That's okay." He waits a beat, two, three, but the human still doesn't acknowledge him. "It's like this, kid. You can stay here as long as you like, as long as you're good with eating spaghetti, I guess, but if you ever hurt anyone again, you're gonna have to go. You understand? Just nod or something if you do, okay?"

The moment stretches out between them until the human turns their head, for the first time making something like eye contact with Sans. There's no recognition or expression still, but they hold that, eye to socket, and then they blink. Once, slowly, like a cat.

Sans settles a hand on the human's shoulder and gives it a squeeze. "Well, that's a start. You're gonna be okay, kid. Hey, maybe I can find you a word search or something. You liked the one I left out there, right?"

The human takes better to that than anyone ever really expects. They watch the test pattern, and they do Sans' word searches, a crayon gripped awkwardly in one fist. They find most of the words, usually. They chew on burnt lengths of spaghetti or leftover fries from Grillby's that Sans brings over, once people start fearfully returning to town. They sleep in short bursts, curled up in a tight ball on the floor in front of the couch.

Papyrus chatters at them, never much minding the human's lack of response. They never do approach him again the way they did when they cast their boxing glove aside.

Sans keeps supplying word searches, tries to tell jokes at the human but doesn't bother after the first few attempts elicit nothing. One day as he stands up from pressing the paper into the human's hands, he looks down at their tangled wreck of hair. "Whoa, kid, you planning on doing something about this?" He starts to work his fingers in to try and unpick some of the knots, but the human starts shaking their head wildly, long after Sans jerks his hand away.

"Hey, hey, hey," says Sans, once the human stops, holding his hands directly in their line of sight. "Okay, it's fine like that, it's okay, it's okay, you're gonna be okay."

They turn their head up in his direction at that, and their lips, momentarily, press tight together. Their mouth opens, followed by a raspy sound, then they stop. They lower their head, looking down to the word search, and grip the crayon in their fist. Painstakingly, they start circling one letter at a time.

Sans sighs, and sits down next to the human. "Look, kid," he says. "You've done some horrible stuff. I only know what you did around here. If there was more than that... well, you're right. That's never gonna be okay. And I hope you're never okay with what you did. But you're alive, kid. And a lotta people aren't. And you're gonna have to figure out what you're gonna do with that. Doesn't have to be today, or tomorrow, or even soon. But there's gonna be something you need to do. And you're gonna do it. And then you're gonna start learning to be a better person, not just someone who doesn't hurt people." He pauses. "Don't get me wrong, that's a big step up. But I'm not lying. You're gonna be okay, kid. Just keep putting in time."

He stands up and shoves his hands in his pockets. "Here, lemme go to the library for you. Get you something to read."

* * *

Days pass, stretching into weeks. The human stays put in Papyrus and Sans' living room, but sometimes they turn their head, tracking the skeletons' movement as they pass through the room. They both take it as a good sign.

Then, they start to pick themself up off the floor as Sans heads from the kitchen to the front. They fall in behind him, making him stop curiously just outside the door. "Hey, kid. You coming with? I'm not going anywhere special. Just the lookout post."

The human hesitates, then makes a single, definitive nod, looking up at Sans for a split second, then snapping their gaze down to their feet.

"Okay, kid," he says. "Come on. Follow me, we'll take a shortcut."

The human goes with Sans, and allows themself to be picked up and sat on the counter of the lookout post. The whole time, they look straight up the path, the direction they came from. They sit and there stare all day long, while Sans lounges and flips through a car magazine.

They don't go with him every day. But now and again, something catches in the human's hollow heart, and they follow him there. Sometimes they bring one of the books Sans borrowed from the library for them, and they read, peering up the path every page.

The human waits for Sans one morning, clutching the broom and the dustpan from the kitchen. Sans says nothing, not as they follow him to work, not as they set out up the path, not as he silently follows them back into the ruins.

They stop just past the open inner door, and they start to sweep, clumsily, with the broom far too large for them. They sweep the dust they made on their way out of the ruins, collecting every last bit into the pan. They leave the broom behind and cradle the dustpan in their arms, tilting it back to keep it from spilling, as they walk through the ruins.

They carry the dustpan through a little house, empty and filled with more ordinary dust, and they walk past a dead tree. They step lightly over cracked floors, and avoid piles of leaves, and step past rows of spikes.

The human makes their way to a patch of wilted yellow flowers, preserved by the memory of sunlight and wind. They look down at the dustpan in their arms, its catcher filled with faint, shimmering dust, and they slowly pour it over the flowers. They stand over the flowerbed, looking directly at it, then sink to their knees.

They dab their tongue at their cracked lips. They work them silently, like practice, until they manage to say, in a voice rusty from disuse, "Pie."

The child lowers their head, and there they remain, until Sans walks out of the shadows and guides them to their feet. "Come on, kid," he says. "Let's go home."


End file.
